


there is no answer

by mrmime



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Guidestuck - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 06:35:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11435202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrmime/pseuds/mrmime
Summary: It has to be a virus, right? What other sort of explanation could there be for you being so... you.





	there is no answer

You wonder if, maybe, people like you are just meant to be alone.

It's not like it's a question you can really ask anyone. Not even Big Bro, as much as you hate to admit there's anything you can't ask or tell _him_ , of all people. (And if prodded, yeah, you'll admit that you know he doesn't really count as a "people"). There just isn't an answer.

Even though you know that, it doesn't stop the quiet tears from gathering on your eyelashes, clumping them together, rudely threatening to smear the make up your cousin's been nice enough to lend you. She barely wears the stuff nowadays, save her lipstick. And by this point, you've scrounged up your own little tube of it so you don't go infecting her with whatever weird virus plagues your everything.

It has to be a virus, right? What other sort of explanation could there be for you being so... you.

You wonder if Big Bro has an answer to that question.

"Do you?" you ask him, and when you glance blearily over your shoulder towards where you've set him on your bed, you could almost swear that heavy, wooden head of his lolls lazily to one side. The most nonchalant shake-of-a-head a puppet could give, huh? You might think it was cool of him, if you weren't looking for answers right this second. So you puff, dejected, scooting around halfheartedly to face him. Your brows furrow.

"I guess not, huh..."

Your gloves keep your nails from biting into your knees when you grip them, trying, trying to will yourself to stand. When the moment passes, you pull yourself up. If only so you can wobble across the five steps between your abandoned netbook and your mattress, collapsing onto it as dramatically as you want. Because it's your room, and your cousin's not even home.

On the way down, your arms shoot out to ensnare your friend in a squeeze that would've knocked the breath out of his not-lungs, had he had them. You know, 'cause you're very strong. Especially for someone as unremarkable as you are.

Well, mostly unremarkable. The make up and the weird clothes kinda skew that.

You squeeze him, and you rub your face into his polo that you just washed because you know you have quarters somewhere, and you don't care if you smear your make up on him right now. You'll do laundry tomorrow. His plush torso muffles the miserable sound that scrambles its way up your throat, followed like a kick in the seat of the pants with a sniffle.

His arms are floppy but their weight around you reminds you of all the other times he's been there to comfort you. All the other times, when there was no one else.

You don't know if it makes you feel better, or worse.

A lot of times, you have no idea what you're feeling. You wonder bleakly if that's part of being a teenager, or just part of being _you_ \- Cal S. Strider.

... Eventually, when you get tired of still not having an answer, you wipe your snotty, messy face on your friend one last time and squirm your clumsy way up into a sitting position on the edge of your bed. Your fingers dig gently into his cottony sides, and you wish distantly that you didn't look like such a dippy in shades. They make your Bro look so _rad_ and mysterious, and _you_ look like a moron who's fighting a losing battle with the sun. Despite yourself, you feel a compulsive titter spidering its way up your chest, tilting your head down at your puppet-turned-impromptu cry-sponge while he peers up at you, unmoving and oh-so-stalwart. 

If only you could manage to just stop... wearing your dumb emotions, jagged and mangled as they are, on your sleeve. And your shirt collar, and his polo, and god, you got mascara in your bangs?

"Stupid," you mutter, pinching the colorless (save the mascara) locks between your fingers.

You really need to go wash your face. 


End file.
